For Zach
He is a near-omnivore. I am . . . more discerning.
I am highly organized. He is . . . less so.
He wrote his undergraduate thesis on condoms.
I wrote An Analysis of the Financial Stability of Social Security in the Context of Changing Demographics. (No, you cannot read it.)
Even our Zodiac signs are diametrically opposed.
But somehow, despite every obvious difference in our beings, we have been devoted to each other almost from the beginning.
Early on, we recognized ourselves in each other, way down deep, beneath outward appearances, where values and philosophies dwell, where the essence of a person is formed. Somehow, we saw those subterranean parts of each other almost at first glance.
It was only afterward that we got acquainted in the traditional way.
It was only afterward that our many differences made themselves known, erecting obstacles in our path and daring us to navigate our way over, around, or through them.
I cursed those differences then, but I treasure them now. They taught me one of life's most important, albeit painful lessons: that love, plentiful though it may be, is not enough.
Without work, without struggle, it is not nearly enough.
And we have worked and struggled for nearly 17 years.
But mostly we have loved.
On a wintry weekend 15 years ago today, we were hibernating in our room at a lovely mountain inn. Zach had whisked me away from the city, in the wake of my third semester of law-school exams, and had planned to take me high over the snow-covered countryside in a hot-air balloon. He had a ring in his pocket, and had planned every detail of the surprise.
That's when things started to go awry.
At check-in, I very nearly saw the highlighted note next to Zach's name in the reservation book, the one that made sure all of the inn staff new he'd be proposing that weekend. At dinner the first night, the waiters paid us special attention and gave Zach knowing looks all evening. They must have thought he'd drop to one knee at any moment. They didn't know about the balloon ride planned for the next day.
When the weather didn't cooperate, making it unsafe to fly, Zach cast around for a back-up plan. He wanted to take me someplace high up, with a breathtaking view of the mountains and the snow. That's how we ended up driving down a barely paved road, with him surreptitiously counting telephone poles and looking for well hidden markers on trees. And that's why, on the cold, cold day of the winter solstice, we trekked what seemed like miles into the forest, abandoning our car at the side of the road and crunching our way through the snow past a gate that was clearly intended to deter us.
And why I kept asking where in the world we were going, and to what purpose.
But Zach told me to trust him, and I did. And do.
Eventually, we reached a clearing with a tall, spindly metal structure at its center. It was probably five stories high, and it was swaying in the icy wind. It had no walls or floors or ceilings, just a series of open-air stairways housed in a rickety skeletal tower.
Zach asked me to climb to the top.
At first I thought he was kidding.
I hoped he was kidding.
He wasn't kidding.
Eventually, I walked over, grabbed what served as a handrail, and started to climb. Very, very slowly. I think I made it almost to the second landing when a gust of wind shook the whole structure. I clutched the handrail and forgot to breathe. When the danger had passed, I turned back to Zach, just a few steps behind me, and made it clear that I would—could—go no further.
What happened in the next few moments confounded me completely. Somehow, on that open-air staircase in the middle of the woods, he managed to perch on one knee. And then he looked up at me and said many poetic things, none of which penetrated my frostbitten, fear-paralyzed brain.
After a minute or so, I confessed my sheer perplexity. The romanticism of the moment completely escaped me.
What I think I said was, "I have no idea what you are talking about."
Undeterred by my absolute incomprehension (and all that it might have portended for our future), he pressed on, this time with a visual aid. Petrified that his frozen fingers might fumble the ring after he'd carefully worked it out of the box in his pocket, he gingerly presented it to me.
Once again, I forgot to breathe. I also temporarily lost the power of speech, so complete was my shock. And I burst into soon-to-be-icicles. I think I was somehow channeling Miss America the split second after the runner-up is announced.
Eventually, my lungs and larynx began to function again. And, of course, I accepted.
The next day, we even got to take the hot-air balloon ride.
Ten years later, I took Zach back to that same mountain inn, and we retraced the path to our fire tower. Somewhere, there are pictures of it. But this one is still my favorite.
You have to imagine the snow that was there back in 1991. And you have to trust that the fire tower is there in the distance.
But you can see the road we traveled, and just one of the many, many obstacles we've overcome.
I am highly organized. He is . . . less so.
He wrote his undergraduate thesis on condoms.
I wrote An Analysis of the Financial Stability of Social Security in the Context of Changing Demographics. (No, you cannot read it.)
Even our Zodiac signs are diametrically opposed.
But somehow, despite every obvious difference in our beings, we have been devoted to each other almost from the beginning.
Early on, we recognized ourselves in each other, way down deep, beneath outward appearances, where values and philosophies dwell, where the essence of a person is formed. Somehow, we saw those subterranean parts of each other almost at first glance.
It was only afterward that we got acquainted in the traditional way.
It was only afterward that our many differences made themselves known, erecting obstacles in our path and daring us to navigate our way over, around, or through them.
I cursed those differences then, but I treasure them now. They taught me one of life's most important, albeit painful lessons: that love, plentiful though it may be, is not enough.
Without work, without struggle, it is not nearly enough.
And we have worked and struggled for nearly 17 years.
But mostly we have loved.
On a wintry weekend 15 years ago today, we were hibernating in our room at a lovely mountain inn. Zach had whisked me away from the city, in the wake of my third semester of law-school exams, and had planned to take me high over the snow-covered countryside in a hot-air balloon. He had a ring in his pocket, and had planned every detail of the surprise.
That's when things started to go awry.
At check-in, I very nearly saw the highlighted note next to Zach's name in the reservation book, the one that made sure all of the inn staff new he'd be proposing that weekend. At dinner the first night, the waiters paid us special attention and gave Zach knowing looks all evening. They must have thought he'd drop to one knee at any moment. They didn't know about the balloon ride planned for the next day.
When the weather didn't cooperate, making it unsafe to fly, Zach cast around for a back-up plan. He wanted to take me someplace high up, with a breathtaking view of the mountains and the snow. That's how we ended up driving down a barely paved road, with him surreptitiously counting telephone poles and looking for well hidden markers on trees. And that's why, on the cold, cold day of the winter solstice, we trekked what seemed like miles into the forest, abandoning our car at the side of the road and crunching our way through the snow past a gate that was clearly intended to deter us.
And why I kept asking where in the world we were going, and to what purpose.
But Zach told me to trust him, and I did. And do.
Eventually, we reached a clearing with a tall, spindly metal structure at its center. It was probably five stories high, and it was swaying in the icy wind. It had no walls or floors or ceilings, just a series of open-air stairways housed in a rickety skeletal tower.
Zach asked me to climb to the top.
At first I thought he was kidding.
I hoped he was kidding.
He wasn't kidding.
Eventually, I walked over, grabbed what served as a handrail, and started to climb. Very, very slowly. I think I made it almost to the second landing when a gust of wind shook the whole structure. I clutched the handrail and forgot to breathe. When the danger had passed, I turned back to Zach, just a few steps behind me, and made it clear that I would—could—go no further.
What happened in the next few moments confounded me completely. Somehow, on that open-air staircase in the middle of the woods, he managed to perch on one knee. And then he looked up at me and said many poetic things, none of which penetrated my frostbitten, fear-paralyzed brain.
After a minute or so, I confessed my sheer perplexity. The romanticism of the moment completely escaped me.
What I think I said was, "I have no idea what you are talking about."
Undeterred by my absolute incomprehension (and all that it might have portended for our future), he pressed on, this time with a visual aid. Petrified that his frozen fingers might fumble the ring after he'd carefully worked it out of the box in his pocket, he gingerly presented it to me.
Once again, I forgot to breathe. I also temporarily lost the power of speech, so complete was my shock. And I burst into soon-to-be-icicles. I think I was somehow channeling Miss America the split second after the runner-up is announced.
Eventually, my lungs and larynx began to function again. And, of course, I accepted.
The next day, we even got to take the hot-air balloon ride.
Ten years later, I took Zach back to that same mountain inn, and we retraced the path to our fire tower. Somewhere, there are pictures of it. But this one is still my favorite.
You have to imagine the snow that was there back in 1991. And you have to trust that the fire tower is there in the distance.
But you can see the road we traveled, and just one of the many, many obstacles we've overcome.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 6:23 AM
2 Comments:
Beautiful. Thank you--and happy Anniversary.
xo
Zachary told me this story years ago, but it was great to hear your version, Jody. You both focused on some of the same details; others are different, as far as your points of emphasis. As it should be! Yes, this romantic story has always been one of my favorites. Over the years, I've told it proudly to many friends!
Keep up the good "work"! Most of all, it is a joy to read the love-infused messages you both post...an inspiration to us all. Thank you for sharing them so freely.
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